


Maslenitsa

by spare



Series: Life, Love, & Lots of Yummy Food [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on ICE, Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Blini, Festivals, Fluff, Food, Gen, Holidays, M/M, Maslenitsa, Pancake Week, St. Petersburg, VictUuri, Victuri, post-Season 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-18 08:23:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10613010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spare/pseuds/spare
Summary: “It's the week when we get to eat pancakes,” Victor explains. “Lots and lots of pancakes.”... Or the terribly inaccurate, shamelessly self-indulgent, fluff-for-fluff's-sake fic where Victor and Yuuri celebrate Maslenitsa in St. Petersburg.





	

**Author's Note:**

> You know what else are round and golden? Blini! And you know what week-long Russian holiday involves eating a whole lot of blini? Maslenitsa, a.k.a. Pancake Week. So, yeah. This fic. XD  
>   
> Maslenitsa was February 20-26 this year. (In [The Eros of the Pork Cutlet Bowl](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9456689)'s continuity, let's say it's a couple of days after the bonus chapter.) IRL, that means it overlaps with the Asian Winter Games (the figure skating events were Feb 23-26) in Japan, so for the purposes of this fic, both the 4CCs and the AWG (if there'd be one in YoI-verse) were held a few days earlier than their real-world counterparts.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** We have Mitsurou Kubo, Sayo Yamamoto, Kenji Miyamoto, and Studio MAPPA to thank for the masterpiece that is _Yuri!!! on Ice_. The story below is a free fanwork published solely for entertainment.

**_St. Petersburg, Saturday, February 25th_ **

They've only just arrived at the supermarket when Victor does a double take.

“Oh, right,” he exclaims, blinking at something in the distance, “it's Maslenitsa already.”

Yuuri follows his fiancé's line of vision to—a snack stand?—selling pancakes with various toppings on display. He shoots Victor an inquiring glance. “'Maslenitsa'?”

“It's the week when we get to eat pancakes,” Victor explains. “Lots and lots of pancakes. Also pretzels—” He gestures towards his neck, “—that people string into necklaces and wear, yes? But mostly pancakes.”

Buckwheat pancakes, to be exact, made with warm milk and butter and eggs. The snack stand owner, recognizing Victor, insists that they try a few ( _“Besplatno—free, you comprehend?”_ ) and looks pleasantly surprised when Yuuri thanks her in (somewhat) passable Russian. Victor drizzles his with honey and cream. Yuuri tops his own with raspberry jam. The blini are sweet and rich and quite vkusno, enough to earn Victor's heart-shaped smile. Which coaxes a smile from Yuuri in turn, heart warming at the sight, and makes him wonder all over again how on earth he could be so lucky.

One Instagram post (#blini<3), a takeaway bag, and over a week's worth of groceries later, they trudge back to their apartment, purchases in tow, Yuuri trying not to shiver too visibly from the cold. ( _And I thought Detroit was bad,_ he thinks, not for the first time, and not unfondly.) Since morning it hasn't snowed as yet, but the sky is grey and overcast. In St. Petersburg, it seemingly almost always is; in the six weeks or so that he's spent in the city, Yuuri could count with his fingers the number of times he's seen the sky anything _but_ cloudy.

“It'll be spring soon,” Victor remarks, at any rate. “That's what Maslenitsa is about, you know? Besides the pancakes. It's 'Au revoir' to winter and 'Salut' to spring. When I was little, I remember—” He suddenly freezes, midstep, prompting Yuuri to look back.

“You remember—? Victor?”

“Going to the fair,” the silver-haired man replies, left foot finally landing on the pavement. “It was in Moskovskaya Square, I think, but then my memory's fuzzy.” He gives Yuuri a wry, wistful smile. “Izvini, Yuuri. I've just realized I haven't really _been_ to another one of those in twenty years. Can you believe it?”

And the thing is, Yuuri can.

All too well, and all too keenly.

And so even as Victor remains ever-cheerful, relaying this, as if he's altogether unbothered by the fact and neither should anyone else, part of Yuuri couldn't help but think— _still_.

Still.

It takes a bit of reshuffling, baggage-wise, but eventually Yuuri takes Victor's gloved hand in his own, squeezing gently. “We're free this weekend,” Yuuri says.

“So we are,” Victor hums, squeezing back. His eyebrow lifts, and the look he fixes Yuuri is playful. Expectant. _Come out and say it,_ those pale blue eyes implore. _I want you to. I dare you to._

So Yuuri does.

He blushes all through it, because _of course_ he would, but at least he manages not to stammer.

Much.

~o~

And thus the early afternoon finds the both of them—and Makkachin—in Moskovskaya Square's Maslenitsa Street Bazaar, the poodle barking and bounding excitedly ahead at the sight of the giant straw doll in multi-colored dress posted just beyond the entrance. For his part, mercifully, Victor doesn't bark; just pulls Yuuri along towards the effigy with all the unbridled enthusiasm of a child. In as much as a twenty-eight-year-old, nearly six feet tall adult Russian man can be called a child, that is.

“That's Lady Maslenitsa,” Victor informs him, indicating said straw-stuffed effigy. (After a cursory sniff, Makkachin had gone on to inspect the nearest stall; one that apparently sold tea cozies and hand-painted earthenware, of all things.) “On the first day she's supposed to be paraded around town—like those lion-dragon floats in Hasetsu last year? Right before China?”

“The hikiyama, you mean?”

“Yes, those. 'Though I guess they don't burn them at the end of the festival, do they, Yuuri?”

“Uh, no.” Yuuri blinks. God forbid. “They're put away until next year's Okunchi.”

“I see.” Victor tilts his head thoughtfully. “Out here, we always burn the Maslenitsa dolls once Forgiveness Sunday rolls in.”

Ah. “So, tomorrow—”

“Da.” Victor nods. “There'll be a ceremonial bonfire and everything. Supposedly even any leftover pancakes would be thrown in, back in the day. It's only ever effigies now, though.” There is a pause, and then Victor grins, “And unfashionable articles of clothing.”

 _Right._ Yuuri folds his arms. “Including neckties and suits, I suppose?”

“Neckties and suits, especially.”

“That I may or may not own, and that you've been trying to get me to burn since last year?”

“Yes?” Victor shrugs, still smiling. “It's best to uphold _tradition_ , Yuuri.”

Yuuri simply stares steadily back. “Not if it's a made-up one, it's not,” he replies, and hopes that Victor hasn't heard of the origins of White Day, or how fried chicken became standard Christmas fare back in Japan.

Victor pouts. “But—”

“Victor.”

“Fine,” Victor huffs, looking wounded. “So I _may_ have stretched the truth a tiny bit. But really, if anything needs burning, it's that tie.”

“Well, it's my tie, and I happen to like it,” Yuuri retorts. “And besides, it's lucky. I mean—” He swallows and adjusts his glasses, fingers brushing the bridge of his nose, “I was wearing it, you know, back then. In Sochi.” _On that wonderful, magical night I danced with you._

(A.k.a. 'The night his stupid drunken self had managed to forget, and for which Yuuri will forever be kicking himself in the head.')

(A.k.a. 'The one night drunken stupidity may have worked in his favor, and for which Yuuri will forever be grateful it had, marching mammoth hangovers notwithstanding.')

Yuuri's face is positively burning by this point, of course; it's a wonder he hasn't set the Maslenitsa doll aflame.

And as for Victor, well—

Victor looks... astonished. But in a good way, and only for a moment, and then he lets out a chuckle, breathless and brief, beside him. “I see,” Victor says.

The smile he accompanies it with is gentle and reserved, almost shy. It's his rare smile: the one Yuuri has only ever seen that long-ago morning on the beach in Hasetsu, then at their reunion in Fukuoka; then by the entrance of the cathedral in Barcelona, Yuuri's heart pounding as he'd placed the ring on Victor's finger; and then—the most recent, barring today—on a not too long-ago evening in St. Petersburg itself, when they'd finally lain together in Victor's apartment, in Victor's bed, Victor uttering Yuuri's name like a prayer as he moved—

That gentle smile is no less breath-taking then than it is now, is what Yuuri's saying.

(Thinking.)

(While decidedly _not_ thinking about any bed- and Victor-related activities in the middle of the goddamn day, for goodness' sake, because that would be—)

“Your glasses are all fogged up, Yuuri,” Victor observes.

“A-are they?” Yuuri stutters out a laugh. No idea why _that_ would be. Nuh-uh. Of course not. He takes off the telltale clouded-over pair and quickly wipes the lenses clean.

“And you're blushing,” Victor goes on.

 _Crap._ “Er, am I?”

“Mm.” It's a loaded hum; speculative. In an 'I'm 99% sure I know what's going through your mind, darling, but I do enjoy watching you squirm' way. “ _Yuuri—_ ”

But then who comes trotting to the rescue but Makkachin, dear sweet Makkachin, with a whine and a wuff at them both.

 _Saved,_ Yuuri thinks, pushing his glasses back in place, all while releasing the breath he didn't know he was holding. “Come on,” he says, grabbing Victor's hand, and nods to where the cafe-au-lait poodle stood waiting. “I think Makkachin's telling us to get a move on; aren't you, old buddy?”

Said old buddy merely cocks his head to the side, seemingly puzzled as to what about the dolled-up scarecrow the two humans found so fascinating.

~o~

The next few hours fly fast.

Yuuri's been to a few other fairs and festivals with Victor, of course: the summer matsuri in Fukuoka, Hasetsu's annual Okunchi days prior to the China Cup. The Christmas market in Barcelona. Hasetsu again, and visiting the local shrine for the New Year (made all the more memorable by Victor in a kimono and then later a Santa costume, sans beard, to the delight of the triplets). The winter carnival at Europeans, which turned into a double date with Chris and his beau. And for all his aversion to crowds, Yuuri will brave them, and gladly, if only to see Victor's face light up every time something he deems _'Amazing!'_ catches his eye.

And so it is with the street fair at Moskovskaya Ploschad, Victor pointing and exclaiming, with varying degrees of excitement, at the various wares on display at this and that shop. It soon becomes an impromptu shopping spree; they buy a shawl for Yuuri's mother, a ceramic ashtray for Mari-neechan, a beaded purse for Minako-sensei. For his father they obtain a small wooden lockbox (an antique, if the seller is to be believed, although Victor's charming smile is able to whittle the price down to half of what's on the tag). They ponder what to send to the Nishigoris: a set of nesting dolls (the triplets had asked about them once), a Tsar Blin plushie as big as Makkachin, or a box of traditional sweets? (They ultimately end up buying all three. A couple more of the latter, in fact, because _candy_.)

They eat. In every other food stall there's blini: all round, all golden, some thick, some thin, served with sweet or savory toppings or none at all (one stall in particular showcased blini that looked and tasted quite like okonomiyaki, except with sour cream instead of mayo as dressing). Yuuri blinks when they come upon a booth selling pretzel necklaces; up until then, he'd half-believed Victor had been pulling his leg. And thus he doesn't protest as much when Victor plops one around his neck. ( _“Like edible medals, yes?”_ Victor says, and Yuuri agrees, and tries to drive the image of a naked Victor biting his latest medal from his mind while his fiancé obliviously snacks on a pretzel ring.)

They drink. Yuuri downs a cup of hot sbiten, which tasted something of a cross between sweet apple cider and ginger tea. Victor goes for 'Russian' tea: strong, dark, and sweetened by _way_ too many spoonfuls of jam than Yuuri thinks necessary (said necessary amount being none whatsoever). Nonetheless, with a bit of cajoling, Yuuri does take a sip or two of the drink, and nearly chokes when Victor cheerfully points out that _“We're sharing an indirect kiss right now, Yuuri!”_

Ultimately, they make merry. They watch a puppet/animal show ( _“Makkachin can totally juggle, too!”_ ), listen to folk music ( _“Maybe I should have some balalaika for my next FS piece. What do you think?”_ ), and witness Makkachin's glorious debut as a magician's assistant by barking at the box where Frolo the monkey would reappear ( _“At least he made it seem part of the act. That's a professional for you.”_ ). Through it all, Victor and Yuuri talk. A whole lot. About anything and everything that came to mind, as if doing so's as natural as breathing.

(And with Victor, it is.)

Well, Victor talks, for the most part, with Yuuri perfectly content to listen in. Until they get to the thread-making workshop, that is; one of them mentions the fairy tale Sleeping Beauty in front of the spinning wheel, which somehow leads to Victor mentioning the ballet production of it that he'd seen once, at the Mariinsky, which _then_ leads to Yuuri mentioning—reminiscing about, really—that fateful moment when he'd first seen Victor on TV, elegant and captivating and achingly beautiful on the ice while skating to Tchaikovsky's The Lilac Fairy.

“I guess you could say it was, well—a crush at first sight?” Yuuri confides, red-cheeked.

Victor raises an eyebrow. “Only a crush, Yuuri?”

Yuuri quirks his own eyebrow back. “I didn't really know you back then,” he replies, “and you didn't even know I existed. Loving you came later.”

“How much later?”

To which Yuuri simply smirks and says, “Take a guess,” and slinks away, savoring Victor's stunned silence, and then Victor's cries of how Yuuri suddenly going Eros on him is just unfair. (But hot damn, is it sexy.)

(Because _nothing_ apparently turns Victor on more than Yuuri being an awful, awful tease, and they both know it.)

By then enough people have gotten wind of the fact that Victor Nikiforov, figure skating's living legend, walks among them, and after the fifth straight photo request from starstruck fans (some of whom are even Yuuri's, strangely enough), they decide to call it a day.

“In any case, we could always go back tomorrow,” Victor muses aloud on their cab ride home. “Or we could try Dubki Park, or— Oh! You haven't been to Yelagin Island yet, have you, Yuuri?”

“I haven't,” Yuuri concedes. “But yes, I'd love to go there with you.” _Anywhere you want,_ he appends, but does not say. _Wherever. For as long as you'll have me._

“Prekrasni,” Victor declares, beaming. “It's a date, then.”

~o~

It's snowing pretty heavily by the time they get home. Both Victor and Makkachin appear unmindful of it, but in the half-minute it takes them to alight from the taxi and reach their apartment building's entrance hall, Yuuri sniffles, shivers, and convinces himself that he must be imagining the frost forming on his spectacles. At any rate, he is beyond relieved when they at last manage to haul themselves, bags and all, into the elevator.

“‘'Au revoir' to winter,’ huh?” Yuuri repeats dryly.

“There's a bit of wishful thinking involved, I admit,” Victor returns, flicking away a wayward snowflake from Yuuri's nose. “Something like: if we give winter a grand send-off party, maybe it'll finally take the hint and leave.”

Yuuri's lips twitch. “That's just as likely to make it _want_ to stick around, I should think.”

“Too true,” Victor laughingly agrees. They arrive at their floor, and as the three of them step off the lift, he continues, “But we all get to have fun either way, don't we?”

Walking on a little ahead, Yuuri has to nod at this. “I suppose you've got me there.”

“I've got you,” Victor concurs. “That makes all the difference.”

The way he says it, Yuuri couldn't help but look back at him: at Victor's smile and Victor's clear blue eyes and the love, as frank as it is startling, that always makes Yuuri's heart swell and his knees weak; that makes him wonder, sometimes, if the many months since that snowy day in April was just one long fever dream, and he'd wake up one morning and—

He didn't want this to be a dream.

“I love you,” Yuuri blurts out without thinking.

Victor blinks. “Yuuri—”

“And for every day of the rest of our lives,” Yuuri presses on, fierce and determined, “I want to make you as happy as you make me. So, Victor—” He swallows, “Forgive me. For being greedy. At least, when it comes to you.”

By this point, of course, Yuuri's face is positively burning; it's a wonder he hasn't combusted on the spot.

And as for Victor, well—

Victor looks astonished once again. But in a good way, and only for a moment, and then:

“Only if you forgive me as well,” Victor replies, radiant smile returning. “After all, Yuuri, I'm greedy, too. Especially when it comes to you.”

Yuuri smiles back. “I wouldn't want it any other way.”

~end~

**Author's Note:**

> Hikiyama – paper mache floats. Karatsu, the town Hasetsu is based on, holds its Okunchi (lit. 'festival') annually on Nov. 2-4, where 14 such floats are paraded through the streets.  
>   
> Victor, Yuuri, and Makkachin's activities in Moskovskaya Square are pure fiction, as is the 'Maslenitsa Street Bazaar'. There _were_ actual street fairs + events held at Moskovskaya Square for Maslenitsa, but they have no connection to this story. (Speaking of real-world events, let me just record for posterity that this fic was completed during a series of earthquakes in my corner of the world. Live well and stay safe, everyone!)  
>   
>  Thank you for reading. As always, share if you care, and comments and kudos are appreciated. <3


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